


Nothin' To Worry About

by FuriousPoplar



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aborted Genocide Route, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Flashbacks, Gen, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Pacifist Route, Reader Is Chara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 20:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7984414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuriousPoplar/pseuds/FuriousPoplar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans is creepy, sure. He can even be the slightest bit intimidating, when he's putting his heart into it.</p><p>But he doesn't scare you. You could kill him, if you wanted to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothin' To Worry About

**Author's Note:**

> First time using second person POV (not counting tabletops). I actually enjoyed writing with it quite a lot- it's much easier to maintain a good work flow when you can just straight up narrate a character's thoughts, I found. I'll probably use it more in the future.

                You’re not afraid of Sans.

Maybe he makes you a little uneasy, but you’re not sure why. He’s skeleton, that’s likely it. You don’t think you knew any skeletons, back before you died (did you? It’s hazy). Granted, it may be a juvenile thing to be unsettled by— in terms of things to be afraid of, it falls just below a fear of the dark. It’s more something your brother would worry over, if he weren’t so acclimated to all the wonderfully weird people monsterkind produced. Skeletons can be sort of creepy, sometimes, you think. Used to be that if you saw one, it meant someone had died a long time ago. Long enough for every scrap of flesh to have been eaten away by parasites and pestilence, leaving only a hollow reminder of the person that used to be (You can’t help but think of how well that flowerbed back in the underground is doing. You’re glad that you turned out to be good for _something_ , at least).

Sans may call himself a skeleton but he’s not quite what you’d expect after hearing the word. He _resembles_ a skeleton, that’s not what he _is._ His face doesn’t look quite the same as yours does under your skin. He can _wink_ , which makes your stomach hurt if you think about it for too long.

Maybe it’s how he carries himself that disturbs you. He’s bizarrely calm, even in the worst situations. His laid-back attitude is, frankly, unnatural. He acts like he’d never hurt a fly whilst simultaneously being primed to kill at any given moment. He’s weird, that’s it. He’s just weird.

But, why would you care? Lots of people are weird. You’re not really one to talk, yourself. The bottom line is that you aren’t afraid of him.

 

 

 

                You’re not afraid of him the first time you see him after… your latest mistake, you suppose you can call it. The worst one yet, undoubtedly, but still merely one out of a depressingly long lineup. You had been ready to finish it, too. In for a penny, in for a pound, why not; you’d been having fun. But Frisk decided to reset, and while you could have screamed and shouted and called them a thousand terrible things for backing out on you, for being yet another traitor, you can’t help but feel, deep down, that they made the right choice. Maybe Sans was right, maybe there is a glimmer of a good person inside you.

(Fat chance, haha.)

You jump at the sound of his voice, cold and heavy with the stench of malice.

“Human. Don’t you know how to greet a new pal? Turn around and shake my hand.”

You curse when he catches you off guard. There’s no need to be jumpy, but you can rationalize why you’d be that way. Last time he spoke to you with that tone, you had every reason to be on your toes.

And when you tell Frisk with a voice muted like you were choking on your last breath not to turn around, and to run, you feel silly. No, they don’t need to do that. Didn’t you just chastise yourself for being too jumpy? Paranoid, that’s the right word for it.

They don’t listen to you, because they know you were just being paranoid. They’re quite astute, even if you’d never admit you thought that of them. They know nothing bad is going to happen. You’re being nice, this time. You’re going to do things right. He has no reason to be upset.

But, even if he was, it wouldn’t matter. Even if they had turned around to one eye blinking blue and yellow like a busted traffic light, it wouldn’t have mattered. You could kill him if you wanted to. You’re not afraid of him.

 

 

 

                You had wanted to be petty and pretend that you found his story boring, but when he starts talking about your Mom, you perk up and listen carefully. He never says her name, but come on, who else could it possibly be? Living in the ruins was a dead giveaway as it was, but nobody loved god-awful puns as much as her. Not even _you_ could match her voracity for the unfunny.

“do you get what i’m saying?” he floats the words in the air, with the hook of a question but the finality of a statement. Rhetorical, you remember it being called; he doesn’t wait for an answer before he resumes. “that promise i made to her…” he continues, almost wistful. “do you know what would have happened if she hadn’t said anything?” His question floats away from him again, expecting no answer. _Be patient_ , it said, _You’re about to find out._

“…buddy,” he spits like a guilty man. You think you hear a spark of cruelty within him, but he has the face of someone who’s glad things ended the way they did. He turns away from you and closes his eyes, collecting himself for something.

When he turns back around to meet your shared stare, his smile has widened beyond the point of being joyful (you know exactly how it would feel on your face, sore and unnatural). His eyes are open again, but your heart sinks when you see why. You wish they were still closed.

“You’d be dead where you stand.”

That putrid smell of his voice fills the air again, and you know you’d be sick to your stomach if you still had it. You force Frisk’s arm down into their pocket, fumbling for a weapon that you know isn’t there.

_(“I don’t want to take any chances,” they say, voice thick and teary with guilt. “I can’t trust myself. I don’t know what I’ll do if I get mad or scared again.”_

_You frown, as much as you can truly do that inside their head. You don’t like it when people take credit for your work when they don’t deserve it._

_“We’re going to do things right, this time. I promise. I’m done hurting people.”_

_“Very well, Frisk,” you tell them with some hesitation. “We don’t truly need one, after all. Hold onto that stick, however; I know a few dogs who’d love to play with it.”)_

The stick, you think, you don’t have it anymore. You left it with Lesser Dog as a gift, a reward for being so adorable. You have nothing. He’s still staring you down with those soulless hollows, and you guess he’s watching you squirm for kicks. Sick bastard. You want to crush him into powder. You need to. But you’d been guilted into making a promise, too, and you feel like a fool for it now.

Frisk is on the verge of tears when his eyes flicker back to life and his smile retracts, making him look real again. “hey,” he assures, “lighten up, bucko!” he raises his hand weakly out in front of him, making no effort to actually reach towards you. Good. “i’m just joking with you,” he says like he knows you’ll believe him. But the stench is gone, and the room doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

You feel your heart (Frisk’s heart) winding back down, the thumps of its beats kneading away a dreadful tension. He’s a real scumbag, startling you like that. Talking to you like that. Talking to _Frisk_ like that, what the hell is wrong with him? It doesn’t matter what they did, they’re a child. They’re a child who you’re certain has been traumatized for the rest of their life for what you tried to make them finish.

‘Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder’ is a term you’ve read only once before. ‘PTSD’ is slightly more memorable, you find. You found it in a book you borrowed from Toriel’s personal shelf a long time ago, a book on human mental health (It hadn’t been there when you first arrived, she must have gotten it after she met you. Now why, you laughed, had she gotten a book like that?). It was wretchedly outdated, but a decent amount of the information still seemed to be accurate. You skimmed a lot of the text over, and stopped entirely shortly after. You didn’t like reading about PTSD, you decided, or any human mental conditions, for that matter. It made you uncomfortable.

You’re willing to bet that Frisk has something like that, now. And here Sans was, going and poking at it with a needle. He has no business doing that to them.

He ends the talk on a cheery note, for whatever reason. You guess he really was only kidding. You feel silly again, for panicking. You’re still jumpy from last time.

Again, you tell yourself that it doesn’t matter. If he’d tried something, you’re still ready. If he had attacked you, you could have killed him with your bare hands. You’re not afraid of him.

 

 

 

                If there’s anything you’re afraid of, it’s going back. You have Asriel again. You have Frisk, and they’re a part of your life you never knew you needed so badly until now. But despite everything you’d gone through to try and crack the barrier, you love the underground. Nobody was going to hurt you in the underground. Everybody was nice in the underground. Nobody was going to tell you that you’re less than nothing, or that you deserve everything that happens to you, or that you should be burned alive at the stake like the demon you are.

Nobody else felt the same way, apparently. Not even Frisk, and you’d never admit it, but that hurts you in a soft, sad way. Sure, they _understand_. Everyone _understands_. But they understand that you wanting to stay is a problem, not an option. It’s a problem they’ll help you to overcome every step of the way, but…

You want to stay. It’s safe down here. This place is home to you, more than any mound of wood and brick up there ever will be.

“hey, kiddo,” he interrupts, sneaking up behind you. You don’t know if he meant to do so. You jump at his voice and rip the head clean off the golden flower you were stroking. You frown at the droplets of sap on your hand; you love these flowers, too, despite everything. The promise of seeing them again had been something of a driving force for you, so long ago. Even longer, and they had been one of your only pleasures. You wish you had taken seeds with you when you first fell down, so that the garden could have looked as breathtaking as it does today.

You stand up and dust yourself off, trying to find your good posture. “Yes?” you snap, not bothering to hide your irritation. Everyone who knew you understood that they weren’t to sneak up on you. You suppose that he doesn’t truly know you, but you’re not allowing him excuses.

“i don’t think we’ve properly met. you’re chara, aren’t ya? tori’s talked about you a few times before.” He sounds so friendly that you think you’re going to be sick. He has the nerve to use your mother’s pet name, too, and all you can think is that you want Dad to come over and break him in half.

You look and listen carefully, waiting for any sign of trouble as you try to tell your lungs to calm themselves. There’s no reason to be hyperventilating.

“anyway, i’m sans. sans the skeleton. care for a handshake?” He extends his arm towards you, and you take a quick step backwards. What a weird thing to ask.

“hey, now, i won’t bite.” He winks, and you cringe. “my mouth doesn’t even open.”

You stare him down for a few seconds more, looking for… you don’t know. A loaded gun hidden in his pocket, or something. You don’t trust him (because he’s not trust _worthy_ ). His face stays locked the whole time with a cordial, relaxed grin and wide eyes that hide how tired they are.

“Yes, I am Chara. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you force out with an empty smile. You pride yourself on your steady voice; you’re not about to stutter and make a fool of yourself. You reach out to take his hand.

_(“Don’t trust him!” you tell them. You scream. You beg._

_But they can’t help themselves. They didn’t want all this. Even though they put it into motion, you both sort of knew from the start that they wouldn’t be able to keep this up. You didn’t think it’d matter, in the end— it’s a team exercise, is it not? If they can’t handle it, you could always take over for them. But he’d hit them with some shallow lie about how he still knew they were a good kid, deep down. How they could stop and he’d forgive them. How everything would be okay. They ate it right up, like the idiot they are._

_Their shoulders are dragged down by some invisible weight as they throw your knife to the floor. He seems almost shocked, as though he never truly believed they’d listen to him. He assumed they were smarter, you think._

_They’re sniffling and their entire body is heaving with sobs, and it’s disgusting. Pathetic._

_“Go get my knife,” you order, desperate. They had better listen to you._

_“I-I don’t want to. I d-don’t w-want this anymore.”_

_“Listen to me. Pick up the knife.”_

_“No,” they whisper, defying you, as if you were supposed to be their boss. Do they think you’re trying to force them? Stupid. Stupid, stupid._

_“We are going to get hurt,” you tell them. You’re not lying._

_Sans raises his arms, beckoning them forth for a hug. You can feel it in their heart how badly they want one, and regret that you can’t just reach down and oblige so that they don’t go and throw your goddamn life away._

_They run to him. He cuts them down. It’s agony, for both of you. He has the gall to tell you not to come back._

_But, you smile when they come running, screaming out of the SAVE point. “LIAR!” they screech, over and over again. You don’t say “I told you so”. They learned their lesson. Besides, the way they tear into him like a rabid animal is all it takes for you to forgive them and then some._

_Not long after, you find yourself hesitating, and they take it as an invitation to reset. They simply can’t enjoy vengeance the same way you do.)_

“uh, buddy?” he says, concern showing in the arch of his brow as he glances between you and your shivering hand. “you okay there?”

You blink, then blink again, and take a quick look around. You’re in the garden. You’re alive. Nobody’s fighting anybody.

“Yes,” you half-whisper. “I’m fine. My apologies, I’m still a bit flustered about the whole… being back thing.”

He chuckles at your not-joke. “what, you aren’t raised from the dead every day?”

You offer a smile, wondering if he can see how plastic it is, as you take his hand.

A dry _plbplttpblplttttltlp_ squeals in your palm, and you stare at him, dumbfounded. “heheh. the ol’ whoopee-cushion in the hand trick. it’s _always_ funny.” He beams at you, and you can’t help but giggle, however faintly. Everybody gets one, you figure.

“welp, it was swell to meetcha. and hey, my bad for spooking you. tori was pretty _stern_ um about not getting the drop on you. i prolly shoulda took her advice.”

Another giggle escapes you. Damn him, exploiting your greatest weakness.

“welp, i gotta go help my brother pack; he’s _real_ excited to head upstairs. hey, maybe you’ll get to meet him later.” He laughs a fond laugh to himself. “he could be a little intense for you, though.”

His smile widens. You don’t like it.

“keep your guard up.”

He turns around and begins to shuffle away with his hands in his pockets. You mumble a goodbye after him, and he shouts “smell ya later!” in his usually cheery tone.

 Once you’re certain he isn’t going to turn around again, you scowl. What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean? Keep your guard up? Was he threatening you?

You stop to take a deep breath that you didn’t previously know you needed. You look down at yourself— you’re shaking, clear as day. Strange, you think, it’s not cold in here. You guess you’re still on edge from when he snuck up on you. It’s fine, now. Even if you didn’t like him doing that, he apologized. Even then, it’s not like he would have done anything.

And even if he did, you repeat, it wouldn’t have mattered. You’re a bit rusty with your old body, but the muscle memory is burned into your soul after so many deaths. You could kill him if you needed to. You’re not afraid of him.

 

 

 

                You’re not sure what Sans knows. It could be everything, it could be nothing. He hasn’t said a word about what happened, but he told you that he knew, didn’t he? He said he was _aware_ of it all, at least. He’s _aware_ that someone was resetting, over and over. He’s probably aware that they weren’t being particularly nice. You think, sometimes, that you can see him staring your brother down with an odd, cautious look, trying to decide if he’s safe to have around.

(He can go to hell if he’s going to pick on your brother. Asriel was a victim. Your victim. If anyone’s responsible for what he did, it’s you.)

He looks at you strangely too, sometimes. It’s not the same look. The few times you’ve caught him, you could see it in him before he turned away that he doesn’t quite think you’re dangerous. He almost seems to pity you, in a backhanded, disappointed way. Maybe he’s wondering what’s wrong with you. You don’t feel like writing out the list for him.

But he must notice, sometimes, how jumpy you can still be. How paranoid. He must notice how you can forget to breathe, a lot. He must notice how you simply can’t relax when he’s around. He must notice how you’re still waiting for him to try something.

You’re sitting on a puffy blanket in front of Undyne’s couch when it happens. She’d been kind enough to invite the gang over to marathon anime with her and her new fiancé. A majority stake of your (Frisk’s) new friends are here, leaving the living room packed to capacity. Papyrus and Undyne are having an “I got something in my eye” competition after the latest episode ended on a rather heart wrenching cliff-hanger. Alphys is content with smugly gauging everyone’s reactions, taking in how much they all loved the series _she_ had specifically picked out. Azzy and Frisk are to your sides, wiping their eyes (Frisk, specifically, is leaning rather heavily against your shoulder, and it’s uncomfortable and super annoying but you don’t have the heart to tell them to stop).

You snap your head over to Sans when he lobs himself out of the armchair onto his fuzzy-slippered feet, clapping his hands together with a troubling _clack_ and looking about the room. “aight, my turn for snack refill duty. what do y’all want?”

Alphys stammers that she’d like some more soda. Undyne and Papyrus both request pretzels. Frisk says that they’re all good, and Asriel shrugs. You turn back to the TV, pretending that you can read the credits.

You get that feeling that someone’s staring at you just before you hear, “you want anything, chara?”

You chew the inside of your lip. As a matter of fact, you’d really appreciate some popato chisps right about now. But… well, you don’t really need them. Whatever.

“No, I’m fine,” you tell him, still looking at the TV.

“…ok.” You see his hand shoot out of his pocket from the corner of your eye, and you lock up, scrambling to get a hold on anything solid.

_(Their leg is broken, there’s no mistaking the snapping noise they made as they hit the wall. It’s one you know too well._

_They cry out. “Take over. It hurts too much.”_

_Oh, sure, you think, not bereft of humor, leave me to do it. But you both know that you can handle pain far better than them._

_Controlling them is anguish. He must have thrown them harder than you thought. This run was another failure, you’re sure of it. You can’t dodge with a sack of broken glass for a leg._

_You try, in vain, to throw yourself out of the way of a blaster. Its white-hot beam peels across your back, and you can feel your blood boiling beneath your skin. You land on a bone, and you can feel it punch into your chest. It’s too blunt to skewer anything; it merely pushes your insides out of the way._

_He goes back to throwing you about the room. Every hit breaks something else with a sickening crunch. Your strength leaks out from your wounds, and you’re left limp as a puppet with cut strings. During a pass-by, you get a glimpse of his face. He’s wincing with every impact. You’re screaming.)_

You come to when you Frisk lifts themselves off your shoulder. You can sense them studying you with that wide-eyed, concerned look of theirs. You’re staring at Sans again, now. He raised his hand to point at the group members, of course. Not to break anything. You release your breath.

“ok, so i got soda, two pretzels, and three nothings. issat right?”

“YES.”

“aight. oh, hey, undyne, you got any ketchup left?”

She sighs a grumbly sigh. “Yeah...”

He shoots her with an unbidden finger-gun and shuffles away.

Frisk tugs at your sleeve, politely demanding your undivided attention. “What’s wrong?”

You frown unevenly. “Nothing. What are you on about?” You spot Asriel’s unsubtly worried glance towards you out of your peripherals.

“You tensed up really bad, just now.” They return your sullen look and completely out-do you. “Did something startle you?”

“No.”

They keep staring you down, and you can tell that they know you’re full of it. But, they say nothing more and instead go back to leaning on your shoulder. You still don’t have it in you to tell them off.

 

 

_You don’t see him anywhere, but you know he’s here. He’s always here._

_You ask your mind if Frisk is with you. They’re not, of course. That’d make this too easy. You look down at yourself. You’re wearing your own clothes, and you’re in your own body. Your face screws up; this doesn’t make any sense. You’re alive? Then why are you here?_

_You hear a hollow laugh echo out a thousand miles behind you. It’s deafening. You turn around, but you can’t see the end of the hall; it simply isn’t there. You spot a strobe of sickly blue and yellow light sloshing into one another like paint in a whirlpool. It’s getting closer. You know what it is._

_You run, as fast as you can. You’re an okay runner, you remember. Never got much practice, but adrenaline is usually all you need._

_Another laugh splits your ears and you tumble to the ground, clutching your head. “Where ya going, bucko?”_

_You stagger back up to your feet and keep running. You realize, now, that the hall went pitch dark when you weren’t looking. The only light is coming from behind you, blue and yellow. It illuminates more in front of you with every second that passes._

_“Leave me alone!” you screech between gasps. “I didn’t do anything this time!”_

_Another laugh. It hurts._

_“I’m sorry!”_

_He won’t stop laughing now, and the roar in your bleeding ears drives you to your knees. The stench fills the air, thick and clammy like copper. It makes you want to vomit._

_You hear his footsteps stop behind you. “You think I’d just forget what kind of a person you really are?”_

_You begin to feel heavier and heavier with each moment that passes. You can hear your bones start to creak. “Wait, please don’t—!”_

_The last thing you hear is that you should never have come back._

You wake up with an ugly gasping sound, and you know that Frisk and Asriel heard it. They’re already throwing themselves out of bed and running over to you. They’re good friends.

You hate them for it. You hate this. You hate that he can do this to you without you even _seeing_ him. You hate being so powerless. You’ve always hated it. That’s what drove you off the deep end in the first place; it was things like _this_ , like being stuck curling into yourself and sobbing in terror because you _can’t do anything_ that ruined you.

Neither of them say anything. They silently crawl up next to you and offer any comfort they can. Your brother rubs soothing circles into your back. Frisk simply leaves themselves open, letting you cling to them. You hope, briefly, that Asriel isn’t jealous.

You hate Sans. You hate him you hate him you hate him. This is supposed to be over, now. You did everything you could to set things right. You’re being the best person you can.

You hate him, but you’re not afraid of him. You’re not.

 

 

 

                You feel like an idiot, sitting on the bench. You have no idea how you let Frisk talk you into that. Looking back on it now, you don’t know why you didn’t simply laugh in their face when they asked you to take an after-school drama class with them. Maybe it was that pitiful, pleading puppy-dog eyed look they gave you. Maybe you were distracted at the time. Maybe it was because they said they thought you had a ton of potential, and you’re a sucker for flattery if you can actually believe it. Either way, you spent the past two hours being ungodly nervous and awkwardly smiling and clapping for all the other kids. At the very least, most of the other students were monsters. You would have lost it if you had to _act_ in front of a bunch of humans. Lucky you, the only other human there was some girl you pointedly didn’t learn the name of that Frisk insisted was really nice and supportive, and one of their favorite class-mates. She smiled at you a lot. It pissed you off.

There are a lot of things about the situation you aren’t sure of. You aren’t sure how you let yourself get roped into it, for starters. You aren’t sure how Frisk got to be so dang good at acting. You aren’t sure how Mom agreed to let you and Frisk wait outside in the _dark_ to be picked up. You aren’t sure who’s coming to get you, but you guess it doesn’t really matter. It’s walking distance to your house from the school, and the only reason you’re waiting is because it ‘wouldn’t be safe to go alone’ (How strongly you agree is one more thing you’d never admit).

You also aren’t sure why Frisk wasted perfectly good pocket change one of those foul, sugar-free raisin granola bars from the school vending machine, but they seem content with it. They’re kicking their feet back and forth and humming a little tune to themselves, apparently unaware of the dried menace lurking in every bite they take.

“I’ll be right back,” they hum, flicking granola flakes off their sweater and crumpling up the empty wrapper. “I gotta throw this away.” You nod, and they hop off the bench and practically skip away to find a garbage can, leaving you sitting under the incandescent lamplight alone. One more uncertainty for the pile; you aren’t sure where the nearest garbage can is. They could be awhile.

You notice right away how exposed you suddenly feel. You fold your hands together and scan left and right, trying to keep an eye on your surroundings. Something feels wrong.

 

“Well, what do we have here,” he says with an icy laugh. You weren’t paying enough attention to hear him approach. Stupid. Stupid, stupid stupid. He’s practically breathing down your neck. Your heart stops.

You turn your head to look at him, even though you know you shouldn’t. The first thing you notice are his empty eyes.

“Looks like you’re all alone.” Cold poison oozes from his every word. There’s something horrible in the air.

You don’t wait for him. You throw yourself off the bench and onto your feet, stumbling on the landing and falling to the ground. You scramble backwards, scraping your hands on the sidewalk, desperate for every inch of distance you can get a hold of.

“woah,” he says, eyes coming back to life. He reaches out to you. “cool it—“

“ _STAY AWAY FROM ME!_ ” Your throat burns as choke on your own breath. You pray that you’ll stop shaking soon, because he can _see_ that, and he’s going to know that he’s in control, and—

“ _Chara!?_ ” you hear their shout before you hear their footsteps. It came from behind you, but your eyes are fixed on him. He’s frozen in place, but you’re not stupid. You’re not going to look away.

You’re still not looking at them, but you can hear them run up to you and you can feel them grab your heaving shoulders. “Chara, what’s wrong?”

You say nothing and keep staring.

They must have traced your vision to see who you were looking at, because they shout right next to your ear, and it’s not directed at you. “What did you _do!?_ ”

“i didn’t do anything, i just said— i was just joking with them, i swear.”

Their grip on your shoulders tightens. “What did you _say?_ ”

He sputters uselessly, at a loss.

Their hair swings back and forth and they shake their head, disgusted. Maybe they can smell it, too. “Come on,” they whisper to you, returning to their gentle cadence, “Let me help you up. We’re going home.” You don’t offer them much assistance as they drag you to your feet. You reflect, briefly, that they’re stronger than you thought. Or maybe you’re just really light.

The walk home is dead silent. Sans is following a healthy distance behind and Frisk half-carries you, your arm around their shoulder.

When you get back, you stumble straight past Mom and Azzy, both asking with wide, loving smiles how drama class went, and if you had fun. You say nothing, clamber up the stairs to your room and lie on your bed.

Minutes tick by. You hear a lot of shouting, all of it livid. You foggily wonder what everyone’s so worked up about.

 

 

You know it’s Frisk knocking the instant their knuckles meet the door. You sit up and tell them to come in before they can ask permission, and you wonder if you just threw them off. You don’t know why they bother; it’s their room as much as it is yours.

“Hey,” they start, sounding worried. You can see on their face and hear in the tension clutching their words that they’re probably the most angry that you’ve ever seen them. You bite back a smile. “There’s someone who owes you an apology, but I wanted to ask you first. Is it okay if he comes in here? I’ll be waiting outside. Mom and Asriel and downstairs, too.”

You can’t help it; your smile breaks loose. It’s a small one, but it’s there. They don’t notice. “Yes, that’s alright,” you hesitate when you realize what you just agreed to. “Um. Send him in, I guess.”

They nod and creep out the door. You hear a brief, curt whisper and seconds after, Sans enters your room.

 

“hey.” He looks sheepish.

You stare at him, expression decisively neutral.

“so. i’ve been told that i owe you an apology.” He casts a nervous glance to the door when he hears a shuffle outside. “and yeah, that’s fair. you probably heard most of it, but your mom and brother gave me one doozy of a lecture about how not-cool it is to startle you like that, even as a joke. well, uh, half lecture, half trying to restrain themselves from dusting me on the spot. and sure, that’s all it was— sincerely, I was only messing with ya, but… not every joke is funny, you dig?”

He doesn’t seem to care that you aren’t saying anything back.

“so, i’m sorry.” He shrugs. “i didn’t mean to do that to you.”

You stay silent for a few moments more before nodding. “Okay.”

He sighs, slouching under the sound’s weight. “it ain’t my place to bring it up, but… well… i think we both know what this is _really_ about, don’t we?”

You freeze.

“look, let me level with you, because i can tell it’s been driving you nuts ever since we got up here. i’m not going to pretend that when i look at any of the three of you, i don’t sometimes think of what you must have done. it makes things awkward, to say the least. and i’m not going to pretend that i feel sorry for whatever i did to you. but, honestly?” he stops and you watch his smile die down as far as it can.

“i don’t care. i haven’t cared for a long time. maybe a thousand resets ago, i would have found enough hate in me to hold a grudge. but i gave that up, because it’s useless. what’s done is undone, so to speak. everyone’s happy right now, and that’s all that matters. trying to get revenge when everyone else just wants to move on… that’s the kind of thing that’ll eat you alive from the inside out. and, uh, no offense, but i think you’d know that even better than me.”

You look away. ‘No offense’ or not, he’s still prodding a sore spot.

He chuckles. It’s forlorn and humorless. “did i end up telling you that i was secretly hoping we could be friends?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugs again. “i wasn’t joking. hurtin’ you, or frisk, or your brother isn’t even on my mind. as far as how i’m going to live my life, you’re all good kids, and this timeline’s my first meeting you.”

 

You crack a faint smile. “That better not be a _fib_ ula.”

“oh, wow,” he says, breaking up into a hearty laugh, “that is some wildly inappropriate timing right there.”

“What? I was only trying to be _humerus_.”

He keeps on laughing. It’s sort of contagious.

“so,” he tries to get a hold of himself. It takes him awhile. “i’ll give you some space from now on, ok? and, uh, no more sneaking up on you, that’s for sure. we cool?”

“Yes,” you nod, “I suppose.”

“great.” he brings his hands together, and man, you still really hate that clacking sound. “welp, the rest of your family still wants my ass dead, so if you’d excuse me, i have a doghouse to be in.”

You shut your eyes and grumble. Damn them and their undying, overprotective love. “I’ll try to talk them down.”

You don’t know that you’re ever truly going to be _friends_ with him, not the same way Frisk somehow is. Ultimately, and it’s yet one more thing you’d never admit, but you can’t help but be afraid of him.

But if he was telling the truth, then you suppose you don’t have to be.


End file.
